Max Collins - Chicago Lightning

“Yes. Of course. Why-wasn’t it on her… on her?”

“No rings.”

Vinicky thought about that. “She might’ve taken it off to do housework. Was it on her dresser? There’s a tray on her dresser…”

“No. What was the ring worth?”

“It was a nice-size diamond-three hundred bucks, I paid. Did the bastard steal it?”

Mullaney said, “Apparently. The money in her wallet was missing, too.”

“Hell you say! That was a small fortune-Rose was going to buy train tickets with that, and cover hotel and other expenses. She was treating her sister to a trip to California, and Sally was going along…. It was robbery, then?”

“We’re exploring that,” Mullaney said.

Vinicky’s eyes tightened to slits. “One of these S.O.B.’s who claimed they were shorted, you think?”

The inspector closed his notebook. “We’re exploring that, too. This list should be very helpful, Mr. Vinicky.”

I gave Mullaney the eye, nodding toward the back door, and he and stepped out there for a word away from both the husband and Captain Cullen.

“How long will you boys be here?” I asked.

“Another hour, maybe. Why, Nate?”

“I have a hunch to play.”

“You want company?”

“No. But I should be back before you’ve wrapped up, here.”

I tooled the Buick over to 63 rdStreet, a lively commercial district with all the charm of a junkyard. Not far from here, Englewood’s big claim to fame-the multiple murderer H.H Holmes-had set up his so-called Murder Castle in the late 1880s. The Vinicky case could never hope to compete, so maybe I could make it go away quickly.

In the four days I’d kept an eye on Rich Miller, I’d learned a handful of useful things about the guy, including that when he wasn’t betting at Washington Park, he was doing so with a guy in a back booth at a bar called the Lucky Horseshoe (whose only distinction was its lack of a neon horseshoe in the window).

The joint was dim and dreary even for a South Side gin mill, and business was slow, mid-afternoon. But I still had to wait for a couple of customers to finish up with the friendly bookie in the back booth before I could slide in across from him.

“Do I know you?” he asked, not in a threatening way. He was a small sharp-eyed, sharp-nosed, sharp-chinned sharpie wearing a derby and a bow tie but no jacket-it was warm in the Horseshoe. He was smoking a cigarillo and his sleeves were rolled up, like he was preparing to deal cards. But no cards were laid out on the booth’s table.

I laid mine out, anyway: “My name is Heller, Nate Heller. Maybe you’ve heard of me.”

The mouth smiled enough to reveal a glint of gold tooth; the dark blue eyes weren’t smiling, though.

“I’m gonna take a wild stab,” I said, “and guess they call you Goldie.”

“Some do. You the…‘Frank Nitti’ Heller?”

By that he meant, was I the mobbed-up private eye who had been tight with Capone’s late heir, and remained tight with certain of the Outfit hierarchy.

“Yes.”

“You wanna place a bet, Nate? My bet is…not.”

“Your bet is right. I’m not here to muscle you. I’m here to do you a favor.”

“What favor would that be?”

“There’s a murder a few blocks away-Inspector Mullaney’s on it.”

“Oh. Shit.”

And by that he meant, imagine the luck: one of the honest Chicago cops.

“But, Nate,” he said, and I got the full benefit of a suspiciously white smile interrupted by that gold eyetooth, “why would Goldie give a damn? I have nothin’ to do with murder. Any murder. I’m in the entertainment business.”

“You help people play the horses.”

The tiny shrug conveyed big self-confidence. “It’s a noble sport, both the racing and the betting.”

I leaned toward him. “One of your clients is shaping up as a chief suspect. The favor I’m doing you is: I’m talking to you, rather than just giving you over to the inspector.”

Eyelids fluttered. “Ah. Well, I do appreciate that. What’s the client’s name?”

“Rich Miller.”

The upper lipped peeled back and again showed gold, but th bet as no smile. “That fucking fourflusher. He’s into me for five C’s!”

“Really. And he’s made no move to pay you off? Today, maybe?”

His laughter cut like a blade. “Are you kidding? One of my…associates…went around to his flop. Miller pulled outa there, owin’ a week’s back rent.”

Which, of course, I already knew.

Goldie was shaking his head, his tone turning philosophical. “You never can tell about people, can you? Miller always paid up on time, before this, whereas that pal of his, who I wouldn’t trust far as I could throw him, that crumb pays up, just when I was ready to call the legbreakers in.”

“What pal of Miller’s?”

He gave me a name, but it meant nothing to me. I wondered if it might be the guy Miller had met at Washington Park, two of the days, and ran a description by Goldie.

“That sounds like him. Big guy. Six four, easy. Not somebody I could talk to myself.”

“Hence the legbreakers.”

“Hence. Nate, if you can keep that goody-two-shoes Mullaney off my ass, it would be appreciated. He’ll come around, make it an excuse to make my life miserable, and what did I ever to do to that fat slob?”

I was already out of the booth. “See what I can do, Goldie.”

“And if you ever wanna place a bet, you know where my office is.”

When I got back to the brown-brick house on South Elizabeth Street, the Catholic school girl was hugging a tall slender woman, who might have been her mother come to life. On closer look, this gal was younger, and a little less pretty, though that may not have been fair, considering her features were taught with grief.

Sally and the woman who I took to be her aunt were beneath the same shady tree where Mullaney and I had stood with the girl, questioning her, earlier.

I went up and introduced myself, keeping vague about the “investigative job” I’d been doing for Mr. Vinicky.

“I’m Doris Stemmer,” she said, Sally easing out of the woman’s embrace. The woman wore a pale yellow dress with white flowers that almost didn’t show. “I’m Rose’s sister.”

She extended her hand and I shook it. Sally stayed close to her aunt.

“Sorry for your grief, Mrs. Stemmer,” I told her. “Have you spoken to Inspector Mullaney yet?”

“Yes.”

“Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?”

“But you’re a private detective, aren’t you? What were you doing for Sylvester?”

“Looking into some of the complaints from his employees.”

Her eyes tightened and ice came into her voice. “Those men were a bunch of lazy good-for-nothing whiners. Doris was a good person, fair and with a great heart, wonderful heart. Why, just last year? She loaned Ray three hundred dollars, so we didn’t have to wait to get married.”

“Ray?”

“Yes, my husband.”

“What does he do, if I might ask?”

“He started a new job just last week, at an electrical assembly plant, here on the South Side.”

“New job? What was his old one?”

Her strained smile was a signal that I was pushing it. “He worked for Sylvester in the moving business. You can ask him yourself if Rose wasn’t an angel. Ask him yourself if she wasn’t fair about paying their people.”

“But he did quit…”

“Working as a mover was just temporary, till Ray could get a job in his chosen field.” Her expression bordered on glare. “Mr. Heller-if you want to talk to Ray, he’s waiting by the car, right over there.”

She pointed and I glanced over at a blue Ford coupe parked just behind a squad car. A big rugged-looking dark-haired guy, leaning against the vehicle, nodded to us. He was in a short-sleeve green sportshirt and brown pants. His tight expression said he was wondering what the hell I was bothering his wife about.